angels, demons, & lipstick stains
by quorra laraex
Summary: Two strangers and a rooftop on New Years Eve. Cheers to new beginnings. — Maya/Lucas, au.


**_a/n:** i loooooOoOoOve au stories. especially for lucaya. they're so fun to write for, i go crazy. usually on ffnet i post more of my angsty takes on them. i post more varied ones (adventure, silly, comedic aus) on my shared blog for them (_mayahartlucas_ at tumblr!) so if youre interested in those you can check them out. anyways, hope you enjoy this.

might be much different than what you expected. or might not. idk.

* * *

><p><strong>angels, demons, &amp; lipstick stains<br>**(_Two strangers and a rooftop on New Years Eve_. _Cheers to new beginnings_.)

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

They stand at the corner atop their faded red Brooklyn apartment complex.

.

.

She's Seven-B. That's what he calls her, at least. He's not too acquainted with her—although, he would have liked to have been, if she hadn't been so intimidating the time he had moved into the room across from hers. He remembers slipping (how embarrassing, really, losing his balance in front of such a pretty girl his first day) and dropping the box he'd been meaning to load inside (strike two, clumsy bastard) right onto his foot just as she'd been turning her key to her door. He had tried avoiding eye contact, but he'd heard a snicker. And there, standing with her back to him and her chin resting on a shoulder that should have been covered by her oversized sweater, stood a blonde with a smirk on her lips and brows arched in the most devilish way.

She hadn't even asked him if he was okay or welcomed him to New York or gave a simple wave of hello after he'd introduced himself. She had pushed her door open, dragged her heels inside her dingy little place and left him without a name or any act of acknowledgment. He hadn't really taken any offense to her, however. Of all the New Yorkers he'd been forced to encounter, she hadn't been that bad.

He hadn't really had a chance to encounter her since—'til now.

.

.

It is the thirty-first of December and he knows (word on the street is) that the hoodrats will be lighting the illegal fireworks any minute now. And why watch the news to watch the explosions of pinks and silvers laced with gold when he can see it right before his eyes to fall amongst the light specks of snow that make his nose wrinkle at the touch. He hadn't minded watching it alone with the only sound being the cracking at the distance, and his only company being the cigarette he'd been craving to smoke all day. It'd surely juxtapose with his last New Year's. (it involved his mother and cooing aunts and screaming, drunk uncles with confetti in their hair and _no Lucas, you can't have any of that_ whenever he'd reach for a mimosa—a stupid, fucking mimosa, for Christ's sake—and she'd send him straight to hell if he even had the audacity to reach for his Marlboro)

It's almost funny how much has changed.

He's slightly hesitant in walking toward her. Her back's to him, like before, and he's slowly starting to think that he wasn't worthy enough to stand before her with that condescending aura she kept intact too well.

_Well, what the hell_, he thinks. The boy shrugs his shoulders and supports himself by resting his elbows on the ledge, feet aligned with hers. He breathes in the city before looking over at her.

.

.

She is silver and gold and pink in the cheeks.

She's her own firework, really.

He doesn't even know her name.

.

.

"Smoking's a pretty bad habit," her voice slices through the cold winter. It's the first time he's ever heard her speak and he kind of likes the way her voice has this melodic tang to it.

He pulls it away from his mouth and blows a breeze of hot nicotine. He wonders when the fireworks are going to start kicking in, before realizing he'd been a tad off on time with a quick look at his watch. Six minutes left. "I'm not proud of it."

"Neither am I," she grabs the stoge from his fingers and then her eyes are back on the pretty city's silhouette.

He only watches her with curiosity swimming his aquamarine eyes as she presses her red lips shut around the cig. She inhales and blows out.

"We're all dying, anyway."

.

.

The marathon of lights pass in silence—snapping and booming and glimmering in the crystalline reflections their eyes have against the world around them.

.

.

He would have gone to bed by now; maybe enjoy a few reruns of some adolescent shows with a beer or something, but he'd taken notice at every time she'd looked nine stories down, even during the times there were sparklers in the air and she had thought he hadn't been looking. He had. So he waits.

"Shouldn't you be going off to bed by now?"

There it is.

"I kinda like it up here," he says. And he does.

"You're not getting cold or anything?"

"No," he lies.

He doesn't have any cigarettes with him and the one he has is somewhere on the floor, a smeared kiss of her lipstick on one end. He inhales a whiff of snow and tries his best not to shiver. Seconds, minutes pass and they both fail to budge.

.

.

"I'm getting tired," she yawns, stretching cozied-up arms above a head of blonde. It's somewhere between one and two in the morning. "Happy New Year, Prettyboy."

"Lucas," he corrects, offering a smile.

"I know," it reaches his eyes when she returns one.

.

.

If he were the uncaring kind, he probably would have told himself the main reason he'd been on his way to the rooftop the next night was because he needed some _real_ air that had been lacking in that cramped, cereal-smelling apartment. But he's not. He's pretty much going to see if she's up there again—if this is where she vanishes every day, contemplating the very next move of her life and seeing if she's willing to take that leap.

And he kind of likes her.

(through one dark night painted with glowing incandescence, a shared cigarette, and a smile that paralleled the exposure of the moon behind her, he's formed this crush on her and he knows it's silly of him—he still doesn't even know what to call her, besides Seven-B)

.

.

They stand side by side.

This continues every night after January first. Sometimes they don't talk, sometimes she draws, sometimes he smokes, sometimes they just breathe.

As much as she tends to be unacknowledging, cynical, cold—she's always the first to start a conversation when there is one.

"You shouldn't be afraid of exploring this city. You're missing out on some riches and cocktails."

"You barely know me."

"Let's get real, Prettyboy," she declares and her voice sounds like a sin he'll never forget. "We know each other much more than we think."

.

.

On the twenty-eighth of January, he arrives on an empty rooftop and he practically races winds to the corner, anxiety in every inch of his veins. The sky is navy blue, cloudless, starless and calm and everything he is not.

"You thought I actually did it," her footsteps make its way nearer and nearer to him. There is a bit of excitement in her voice—chimes of playfulness and cunning, condescending wit. He's annoyed and decides against answering, only igniting another coyly-teasing question. "Have you no faith in me?"

She's wrapped in this worn out pink (faux, maybe?) fur coat that dragged mid-thigh, some socks that swallowed the entirety of her (miles long) legs, and high_high_ heels. She kind of looks like one of those girls he'd see on urban billboards for vintage clothing—right down to the long blonde hair framing her snow white face and rosy cheeks. He doesn't mean to ogle, but it's hard not to when he's with her. He wonders why she's so unhappy.

.

.

If only they had met at an earlier time in their lives.

Maybe they'd have been living together by then. Maybe just as roommates, maybe as friends, maybe as lovers. They would have probably made an oath to quit their bad habits together—he'd force her to eat (_actually_ eat—entire meals, bite after bite because _no_, _not all foods are unhealthy and will work as enzymes to enlarge your thighs_) all the time and she'd slap the cigarette from his fingers every time he'd have one because if he smoked one, that automatically made it so _she_ could smoke one, too, and really, they'd just be decaying altogether if they didn't try helping each other out.

(like they kind of are, right now)

Things would have been much better for the two if only—

(she wouldn't have to sell every bit of her to the devil in the shapes of men her daddy's age every night, bills and bills of sinful money wouldn't be stuffed under her mattress and he wouldn't have run away from his mother after she'd started dating douchebags that made her drink and drink again, he wouldn't have had to come into this flat almost broke off his ass)

—they'd just tried.

Funny.

They aren't even roommates, or friends, or lovers.

He doesn't really know what they are, but whatever they happen to be, they're digging their graves together.

.

.

He finds her lying flat one day at eleven forty-six P.M. Her eyes are wide open, drowning in the barely-there stars somewhere far above her. She's restless in a sleeping bag, and her lips are as red as ever. When he asks her if she's buzzed, she giggles. She's too broken for words.

.

.

She's counting the money from last night's sin city agenda. Three hundred dollars; she could have done better.

"You don't need to do this to yourself, you know. I respect you," he sighs. He's lying down on his own sleeping bag beside hers. He deems it pretty soothing. "I like you, and I wish you liked yourself."

"You know nothing," she spits bitterly before tucking her stash away into her pillowcase. She's been sour lately.

He only smirks, "We know much more about each other than we'd like."

"Unfortunately."

.

.

"You could do better."

"So could you."

.

.

Her presence is absent for nine days.

(it's enough time for her to gather her belongings and place them into many, many cardboard boxes.

he could have sworn he'd seen a moving truck on day seven.)

.

.

The first and last time she kisses him happens at the break of dawn—after all the chaos of arguing over whose fault it'd been to drop the one cigarette they'd been sharing and after taking turns (purely unintentional, really) taking short naps in their designated camping beds (which consisted of those awake admiring those asleep in companionable silence) and during the transcending colors of the sky, the explosion of orange-gold behind whisks of bubblegum pink and lavender, where the veins of their city run red.

There are sparks, warmth, tingles.

Together they taste a mélange of cherries and nicotine, addicting and lust-driven.

The moment their lips part and he's able to recollect himself, he slides his thumb over her chin, outlining her bottom lip to fix a scarlet smear. She smiles only half-heartedly, and he'd never realized how vitally blue her eyes are until he sees the sun reflected in them, undulating beneath formulating water.

"I haven't kissed on the lips since I was fifteen," she laughs shakily.

He shrugs, smiling in one heartbeat and frowning in the next. This is her last day in this shithole, and her first day of fresh beginnings.

"Thank you," her voice is like silk. _For everything_, she doesn't finish. And she walks off, toward the roof's exit, heels clicking away and hair swaying back and forth behind her waist.

He's at a loss for words, but he knows that the vision of her walking down those stairs will be the last one he'll have of her. And he has no control over it, he knows that, as well.

"_Wait_!" he manages to croak.

She crooks her neck only slightly, to rest above her right shoulder, her back to him. The view is all too familiar. He can't help but smile when he hears her snicker and the déjà vu hits too close to home. "Maya. My name's Maya."

He whispers her name to himself and breathes in the crisp morning air, shutting his eyes and sighing this exhalation of ecstasy and relief. When he looks back up, she's already gone.

She's not fully healed, not even a little. And he's not yet completely satisfied with his life, but he knows he's going to get there.

And they'll be okay.

They'll be just fine.

.

.

And maybe, just maybe, when her smile reaches her eyes and he's out finding himself, they'll run into each other and won't need to share a cigarette to start something beautiful.

.

.

_fin._


End file.
